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We woke to a new-washed world. A huge limb from the mulberry tree was bowed to the ground, but there was no other damage from the funnel clouds and biblical rain of Friday night.
The pile of dirt for the new raised bed was sodden and super-heavy. Barrow load by barrow load Hansel moved it. I planted perennials. We ordered fried chicken from Gretel’s grocery, concocted a couple of salads, and put the white wine on ice.
The Itchy Anklets arrived about 6pm to launch the new deck and raise a glass to the garden’s benefactor, my dad.
The evening ended at about 11pm with flaming sambucas. A late night in Itchy Ankle.
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The uncharitable might consider it little more than practice for the chain gang, but I am prepared to see it as filial loyalty, and love of both hard work and the outdoors. Hansel and the Handsome Prince have spent this weekend digging two massive flowerbeds at the Blarney abode. The first is beside the new deck and involved lifting 12 square yards of sod, shovelling 12 square yards of dirt, and then planting. The second involved the construction of a 24 foot by 12 foot frame where the old driveway used to be, and shovelling another 12 square yards of dirt. On top of the heavy labor, they also planted all the patio pots. Hansel is particularly good at this, fingering the fragile baby annuals into the soil and tucking them in with care.
It is beautiful to watch the boys work. At least I find it so. Gretel has stormed off in a strop. For her, this is not the ideal way to spend a holiday weekend.
Want to hire Hansel as your handyman? Click here to contact him.
Hansel was wheeling his first barrow-load of dirt of the long weekend when he discovered the baby bird. The fledgling blue jay was cowering beside the recycling bin, too young to fly away. That explains the scream (surely their collective noun?) of blue jays who have been divebombing for days at the back of the house. Hansel and I looked at each other and wondered how best to help. We decided to wait for Marilyn. The bird hopped behind the air conditioning unit. It is not there now. We haven’t seen a cat.
My grandmother, although naturally curious, was a stranger to Google. Age and infirmity kept her away from the keyboard, and meant she left this life with unanswered questions about red clover.
My Gran liked red clover and I thought of her when I noticed a giant clump growing in my backyard. My red clover is nearly 18 inches tall and the flowers are as big as thistles, the trefoils nearly the size of sycamore leaves. American clover, surprise, surprise, is over-sized.
I remember Gran telling me that when she was young she was sure there had been as much red clover as white growing in fields and ditches. To her, it seemed that the red stuff had nearly disappeared, while the white was everywhere. She wondered why. I began to pay attention after our conversation and, now I’ve mentioned it, perhaps you will too.
Here in the US, the fields are full of white clover at this time of year, but clumps of red are found only occasionally in hedgerows. A Google search reveals that this is because white clover has been intentionally mixed with grass seed. It is good fodder, and provides a robust show of green when feebler grasses fail to grow. White clover thrives in artifically enriched soil, and survives multiple mowings–that’s why we see so much of it in fields.
Red clover, which is Dutch in origin, does not seem to be so well loved by pasture animals, and thus has not been encouraged in the same way by agriculturalists. It may, however, be classified as a herb, not a weed, and is reputed to bring boundless benefit to the menopausal. I welcome it in my garden.
Down here, it has been a bad week for disco, but up above St Peter and the others are looking forward to Saturday night, for now they have Donna Summer and Robin Gibb to swell the celestial choir.
Paul, Andy and Princess Diana are already working on their dance steps. They wear a lot of white, so outfits won’t be a problem.
Vincent is sitting this one out, but as soon as Donna stops to draw breath, he’s sure to make a lunge for the mike.
My gran–that’s her over there chatting with Mother Teresa–is keeping a weather eye on the door: someone said Paisley was going to put in an appearance.
My dad has asked to be moved–he always gets the room above the disco.
Whether or not you believe in the great hereafter, I urge you to think about God’s Glitter Ball and the people you’d see at this weekend’s disco. It will cheer you up enormously.
Ok, your help is needed. If you are reading this blog before 7am Eastern on May 10, 2012, immediately go to this link and watch Dan Watson’s film and vote here for Dan to have a chance to pitch his idea for a fabulous fishing net to Richard Branson. Richard is offering a visit to the Branson family home and a rather puny cash prize (go on Richard–make it $100,000) to the entrepreneur who earns the most votes. This is social media version of The Shark’s Tank–a digital (and in Dan’s case, deep sea) version of the Dragon’s Den.
Dan’s safety net is designed to give small fry and other special cases a chance to escape with their lives. Trawlers which use the safety net will provide loopholes through which undersized fish can swim away. The net uses reinforced rings within the mesh to prevent tightening around tiddler, and thoughtfully supplies lights to aid the nightime escape of the skinny and slippery. The net helps fishermen by making their trawl 100% useable and by saving them from violating fishing law–they only keep what is big enough to sell. The net helps the fish because they don’t die an unnecessary death before being slung back in the surf to rot in the roil. The net helps the world’s hungry because it keeps more fish in the ocean, growing big and fat and healthy to be legally caught another day.
Winning this contest is important to Dan–and to future of the world’s population, the fish stock and the state of the sea. Vote now.
When the musical of my life is written and performed there will be a massive, sour-faced chorus all singing “why don’t you have your phone?, oh, where is your phone? oh why why can’t you keep your phone?”. The chorus will be channeling my family, friends and work colleagues who are all frustrated by my ability to have my phone both functioning and with me. The story that follows will make this inner circle roll their eyes and click their tongues.
My phone is charged, but languishes at the lost and found in Atlanta’s airport. I knew before I disembarked ( I refuse to say deplaned) that I had mislaid it, but the crew were keen to hurry me off the flight, lest I slowed the twenty minute turnaround. They advised me to report my loss at the Delta desk. I did, and by the time I arrived at my midtown hotel, the pilot (well, he said he was the pilot) had emailed me to say he had the phone and that it would be waiting for me at the airport when I return for my return flight. It is only on Lifetime or in porn movies that the dashing man with the braided epaulets turns up in the hotel lobby…
I mention the missing phone so you can begin to understand the particular challenges I faced this weekend in my endeavor to get to know Atlanta. But in fact I think that my experience would have been not much different with on-the-road access to the internet and to local cab companies.
I always remember too late that people need cars if they are to explore American cities. The distances are just too great, the space is just too huge. Of course, if you want to see the really famous stuff, you can hop on and hop off the tour bus, but here in ATL the Coca Cola HQ, the CNN HQ and the Jimmy Carter Library hold little attraction for me. I don’t do soda, I dislike both rolling news and Piers Morgan, and I can’t get past the feeling that 
Jimmy Carter looks like a crumpled English brown paper bag (as opposed to American brown paper, which is almost impossible to crumple). My hotel is within walking distance of the Margaret Mitchell house, but I didn’t choose to go there. I haven’t read the book.
In Atlanta, I decided, I would ignore the big stuff and instead explore some of the less fashionable neighborhoods, shopping local and small, and meeting people along the way. I would take the advice I always give to Americans visiting Ireland: don’t try to cover too much ground. Don’t dash from place to place, but instead take time to sit and talk to people.
I did some internet research before leaving the hotel at about 4pm. Decatur Square promised two hundred shops and restaurants and was described as eclectic. I got a cab. It cost $20 and when I got there, most of the shops had gone and those that were left weren’t all that interesting. A good cook store, a boutique full of tiny clothing items and a gift store with perhaps a little too much clutter for dogs. I had seen all there was to see in about 35 minutes and, without the smart phone, I had no way of knowing if more places of interest lay just a block or two away. My inner Irish person kicked in, and so I immediately looked for a bar.
At Farm Burger their promise is quality beef and their servers wear t-shirts branded “100% grassfed.” (I nearly bought one for Hansel, but thought better of it–doesn’t pay to advertise that sort of thing in downtown Washington DC.)–but they have all sorts of other snacks available for just $3 each. I ordered Pozole–a cup of spicy stew with pig cheeks, hominy, strips of crunchy tortilla and topped with cilantro. I also ordered some deep fried chicken livers. Four huge ones for another three dollars. I had Sauvignon Blanc served in a 1/2 pint milk bottle which served as a carafe. $12–half the price of similar quality in DC.
All the while, people came and went and I chatted to them. There was a woman of Samoan descent who was waiting for her mother and polished off some chicken livers and a beer or two as she sat at the bar. Lisa the waitress (a Sondheimesque voice from a past life strikes up a warning note: ” If they’re getting paid they’re not your friend. You can’t claim them as a friend. They’re working, really working, only working in this bar”) filled me in on the history of the restaurant and had the kitchen crew whip me up a salad of marinated beets and locally produced Decimal Place goat’s cheese. Delicious.
By this time Lisa and I had worked out that there was no easy way for me to get back to my hotel. Everyone in Atlanta has a car and thus in a suburb like Decatur Square there are no cabs to be found. I had no phone, so Lisa called me a car. “He’ll be 30 minutes” she said “Have another glass of wine”.
This morning, I did some more research and decided that both Little Five Points and Five Points might be worth a visit, perhaps also with a trip to the Art museum which was today offering free entrance to those with Bank of America cards. At last, a benefit I could wring from my financial institution.
I took a cab to Little Five Points, continuing my quest for eccentric Atlanta. There was slightly more in this neighborhood than in Decatur square but all of it was devoted to meeting the needs of ATL’s potheads–lots of hookahs, and glass bowl pipes and items commemorating Bob Marley. On one door, a fly poster urged attendance at a march to legalize marajuana. I wonder how many got it together to show up? Men with beards and women with torn jeans and torn noses sat on the baking pavement and stroked their scuzzy dogs.
There were lots of vintage clothes shops with beautiful window displays and gorgeous rows of dresses sorted by color, not size or style. All vintage shops should adopt the strategy of Clothing Warehouse in order to avoid the random, ragbag look of thrift stores.
It is fun to shop based on complexion, not circumference. I purused the racks of teal and green and rust, but I am big in the twenty first century and so feel like a Gulliver when shopping the past.
It was 86 degrees. I stepped into the cool darkness of the Vortex, a bar famous for its burgers and massive beer list. I had a Sweetwater Pale Ale, brewed locally, and struck up a conversation with a smoker at the bar. (Smoking is disallowed in most restaurants in Atlanta, but is permitted where no children are served. The Vortex is distinctly Goth and not the sort of place that serves chicken nuggets, or offers crayons.). The smoker had ordered the Sunday special–a Monte Cristo sandwich. This is a sandwich of ham and cream cheese and maybe mushrooms in challah bread (or similar). It is battered, deep fried and served with a side of raspberry jam. My new friend let me try some of his. Sweet, savory, crunchy, fabulous and filling. We also had some sweet potato fries with pepperberry sauce. TDF.
I had spotted a bus stop and so decided to take a chance that the route would take me somewhere interesting. We passed a hair salon–Sweetwater, like the brewery– which recently survived a makeover from Bravo’s Tabatha Coffey. Lucky Atlanta, not only does it boast its own Housewives, but it also earned a visit from cable tv’s queen of cutting remarks. The bus passed large houses on wooded lots. Would I catch a glimpse of Chateau Sheree, or bump into Kim and the girls walking KJ? No such luck.
At the front of the bus, a square metal door at shoulder level just behind the driver swung open into the aisle and banged shut every time the bus rolled. It side swiped more than one boarding passenger. A couple of passengers tried to close it, but the latch was broken. A cover masking the bus electrics clattered from roof height at the back of the bus. It fell with a terrible clamor, hitting an asian woman hard. She simply got up and moved, leaving the metal the size of an aircraft bin cover on the floor of the bus. The driver ignored all these distractions and bashed on. Opposite me, a sweaty bearded man with two bibles and a plaid shirt fulminated about the bus company’s decision to invest in 30 new handblowers for the corporate toilets, rather than in bus maintenance. No one made eye contact with him.
I ended up unmaimed at a MARTA station and took the metro to Five Points in downtown Atlanta. The neighborhood was a complete bust. There were signs to Underground Atlanta, a mall that allows shoppers to escape the heat of a Georgia afternoon, but none of the shops seemed very interesting to me–there was a big emphasis on baseball caps. I was close to Olympic park and not all that far from my hotel in mid-town. The bus business had taken a long time and so it was too late to go to the Art Museum. I decided to walk in the direction of my room and hope for something interesting along the way. Oddly, very high end brands all platinum and white jostled to be noticed between the Hampton Courts and Quality Inns and Fairfield Suites.There were hotels everywhere, but, on a Sunday, no-one around. Perhaps the hotels were built for the 1996 Olympics and now serve conference attendees during the week? Certainly, this part of the city is quiet at weekends. There were parking lots as far as the eye could see. Perhaps they too are full to bursting during the week but today it looked as though the city has more square footage than it has people paying rent–parking lots are just space no-one has paid to build on yet. There was hot sun, hot concrete, and a few men talking to themselves while sitting rubbing sore, bare feet or eating from styrofoam boxes. I was hobbling too by this time and noticed that quite a bit of my pepperberry sauce had made it to the front of my shirt. I fitted right in.
I am sorry I didn’t make it to the Art Museum or the Design Museum and maybe I should have taken an MLK tour. If I’d had my phone I would have have been able to check out everything on offer in my chosen locations, and I would have saved both time and shoe leather. I’d have pictures of the Monte Cristo.
I parked outside the Georgetown branch of Comfort One Shoes. This is a shop,and a concept, I normally shun, but a pair of green sandals caught my eye and I simply had to have them. Todd runs the store and quickly convinced me I had just the right ankles for straps . Within minutes I was tottering on the cobbled sidewalks of the shi-shiest part of the city, very pleased with my new purchase.
I was in Georgetown to catch up with old friends from London, who now live in Doha and in Italy. Spending time with them was the first of a number of excellent evenings this week. One involved a baby and some excellent bar food at the Point in Baltimore. Another, soft shell crabs in Itchy Ankle with the world’s greatest realtor. (For avoidance of doubt, te baby was not for eating, but we did polish off the soft shell crabs.) There was also a party at work, and a swim with Gretel and the Handsome Prince.
Other moments of note included the cheering news that Belfast has been recognized by Nat Geo magazine as one of the Top Trip destinations to visit in 2012. This seems to be due to the upcoming centenary of the sinking of the Titanic, although there was also mention of the invention of Milk of Magnesia ( a vile chalky medication designed to comfort the dyspeptic). Ah well, you could be known for worse.
This month’s copy of The Oldie arrived in the post. It is a publication both wry and indignant, and is full of sentences I wish I had written. I recommend you subscribe.
I read the Oldie this morning while drinking a cup of coffee on my new deck, and looking out over the water of the Bay. I am now in ATL, which did not make it to Nat Geo’s list, but which promises to be interesting, albeit in a sweaty kind of way.
To Thanksgiving Farm with Marilyn for a Sunday afternoon wine-tasting not far from Itchy Ankle. The historic homestead and its rolling acres are owned by Doug and Maureen, a scientist and a lawyer from New Jersey who took over the old tobacco farm, and are building their own wine business. Doug grew his first vines in 1996, before he met Maureen. Now they sell about 6000 bottles a year. The hobby started in the barn, but now they have pristine production premises, and a wood paneled tasting room, open on Sunday afternoons.
Doug and Maureen have just returned from a busman’s holiday to Bordeaux. In the south of France, grapes are grown in limestone soil, low to the ground. They ripen in the heat of the sun which bounces off the chalky earth. “It wouldn’t work here” said Maureen “not with the possums and raccoons and squirrels–and my knees couldn’t bend that low to pick”
Raccoons are the Maryland vintner’s worst enemy for they can climb the vines to steal the crop. Too much rain is bad–risk of blackrot. Once the wine is fermenting, Doug has to be vigilant about the Angels’ share–too much evaporation and bacteria moves in to fill the available space. Topping off is vital. They buy their barrels from France where the oak makes the wine taste good. American oak adds too much of a vanilla flavor, says Maureen.. The barrels have to be replaced every two years–after that they become too infused with tannin and that isn’t what you want in even the deepest of red wines. Apparently.
The white table wine from Thanksgiving Farm is the color of straw or honey and tastes to me of apricot and honey. It goes down very well. I am enjoying a glass as I write.
The rose is crisp and dry and would I think be good with cheese, outside on a warm day.
Marilyn felt it best I leave before I tried too much of the red Meritage but I have brought three bottles home with me, so I can give you a full report some other time.
Doug and Maureen keep a cow, the last of a herd that belonged, I believe (my ability to follow complex stories became impaired after the second large glass) to the previous owners of the farm. She is just known as the Heifer, because she was meant for the block, the freezer and the table. Instead she lives in a buttercup meadow and eats the Must–the slop of stem, seeds, leaves and squashed wasps that runs off after the wine is pressed. She is one happy Heifer.
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The situation of Thanksgiving Farm is idyllic. It is fascinating to learn about the wine-making process from picking–all by hand–to bottling, corking, foil and label. It’s life-enhancing to meet people who take risk and make time to follow their passion. We had a great afternoon.
